


Ham and Cheddar

by Aristophanium



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mike Stamford is such a dork, Pining, rarepair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristophanium/pseuds/Aristophanium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And what's wrong with the Landline?"<br/>"Prefer to text."<br/>"Sorry," Mike pretends to pat down his pockets then points upstairs in the direction of his office. "It's in my coat." It isn't. It's in his pocket and if Sherlock cared to look away from his work, he'd know in an instant. Mike ambles forward, waiting. Perhaps the desire to stay in London isn't the adventurous Doctor Watson that Mike remembers but some things never change do they, John? Three. Two. One.<br/>"Er, here," says John, retrieving his own phone from his back pocket. "Use mine."<br/><i>That's</i> the John Watson he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Excuse me, Doctor Stamford. Sir," the other doctor brushes past Mike, ducking his head as he goes.  
"Have a good afternoon, Doctor Ropson," says Mike, with a smile. He checks over his shoulder; John Watson is still following him, limping down the hospital hallway.  
Ropson barely notices John's friendly nod as he sweeps past him, lab-coat billowing. He's the fourth? No, fifth, doctor to to pass Mike like this, stuttering and obsequious. And it's the fifth time John hasn't noticed. Perhaps he's even more shellshocked than Mike had guessed; poor bloke. He seemed to be alright back at Russel Square Park. But the longer Mike spends with the other man, the more affected by Afghanistan he seems to be. Maybe it's not a good time to start up an experiment on his old friend after all. The coffee in his stomach unsettles, flipping uncomfortably against his liver.

"So," says John, catching him up, "who are you taking me to meet, exactly?"  
"Well- It's best just to meet him, I think." Mike furrows his brow. Should he warn John? Sherlock's going to hit him like a hurricane. No. He's come this far, it's best to just let it happen. He gestures for them to continue and turns the corner. A nurse spots him and almost bows, scuttling away. Mike grins.

This is the lab he'd last seen Sherlock in. Hopefully he'll still be here. Sherlock's been left under strict instructions not to touch the new centrifuge or Mike will kick him out of St Bart's once and for all. They've lost enough good equipment to Sherlock's experiments to last a lifetime. Sometimes, Mike wonders why he puts up with him using the labs at all. Well, there is a reason. A train of thought for when he's got time; he pops a mental bookmark in for later.

Mike knocks on the door and opens it without pausing. He's too polite, really. He still can't quite get out the habit of knocking, as much as he doesn't need to. He holds the door open for John to limp in behind him. Sherlock sits, schoolboy-straight at one of the benches, busily setting up another experiment. Yes. This is going to be brilliant. Mike's a genius.  
"Bit different from my day," says John, eyeing the equipment.  
Mike can't help but preen at that. Yes, the hospital's labs are looking tip-top these days. And a lot of other things have changed too. "You've no idea," he says with a chuckle.  
"Mike can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock hasn't so much as glanced over at them.  
"And what's wrong with the Landline?"  
"Prefer to text."  
"Sorry," Mike pretends to pat down his pockets then points upstairs in the direction of his office. "It's in my coat." It isn't. It's in his pocket and if Sherlock cared to look away from his work, he'd know in an instant. Mike ambles forward, waiting. Perhaps the desire to stay in London isn't the adventurous Doctor Watson that Mike remembers but some things never change do they, John. Three. Two. One.  
"Er, here," says John, retrieving his own phone from his back pocket. "Use mine."  
That's the John Watson he remembers.  
"Oh," says Sherlock, with a blue-eyed glance in Mike's direction. Mike can't give him anything, yet. He's certain this will work, but introducing variables may unintentionally affect things. When his available sample size is one, that simply can't happen. So Sherlock will get nothing from him. No motive. He schools his face into a polite frown before making the introduction. "An old friend of mine, John Watson."  
Sherlock steps over to John and takes the phone, sliding it open to send his text. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
It's the highlight of Mike's week.

 

* * *

 

So far, so good. Fingers crossed, Sherlock and John will move in and start solving crimes together before long. Crime-solving and deduction have been Sherlock's passions for as long as Mike's known him. And adrennaline and adventure have always been John Watson's. All the way through med school, John had pined to travel and see the world and get himself blown up. Mike was never that way, focussing instead on learning. Knowing. Being the most clever person in the room. John and Sherlock will work out. Perhaps they'll move beyond mere flatmates, but Mike doesn't want to get ahead of himself. Time shall tell; that's the whole point of this.

Mike checks his watch as he climbs the steps of the large white building, lucky there's only a handful of steps; he really is getting fat. He strides through the familiar wood-panelled room and takes a seat by the marble fireplace. He's still not used to the luxury in here, not that he's complaining. Mike nods to the wizened man to his right; the man ignores him. Oh, well, worth a shot. He always feels a bit too young to be in here, but when in his career has that not been the case? Besides, as dubious as he was when he was first invited here, the Diogenes Club does the best biscuits this side of the Thames.

He settles into the chair, pulling out some surgery reports to go over. He has to admit, he loves working here. At the Hospital, he's constantly interrupted. It's partially his own fault; he's an extrovert at heart. He'll be right in the middle of sorting out one of the lab technician's relationship problems, or something, and suddenly realise how much time has passed. By the end of the day he's four hours behind and he's got to stay back late to get it all done. Eyes drooping when he's trying to focus on something important. Someone's health in his hands. It's better to get the important stuff done here where no one is allowed to speak. Convenient, really. A gag order to enforce productivity. If only he'd thought of it. Oh, and the ham-and-cheddar sandwhiches; Mike loves those.

He's about twenty minutes, and half a pot of tea, into it when he sees him. Holmes. A little jolt of adrennaline sparks it's way through him. Mike's like a shark; he can always sense when a Holmes is in the building. Especially when it's this Holmes. There's just something about Mycroft. He strides through the front room with elegance and confidence, umbrella in hand. His fancy suit fits perfectly along the slender lines of his body. Mike wishes he had the self-control to curb his own sweet tooth and do some exercise, he could look that good if he put his mind to it. But he likes his busy work-filled days and buiscuits make him happy. He's not that fat, besides.

Mycroft never stops in the main room of the Antidiogenes, he has his own private office out the back. Which means he's pretty sodding important. Mike's never so much as been invited back there and he's the Chief of Medicine and St Bart's. So then, what does Mycroft Holmes DO for work, precisely? Something more important than running a hospital. Mike could just ask Sherlock, he supposes; but that would take the mystery out of it and Sherlock would get all suspicious. No, best not to tinker with Sherlock now that he'd set the John experiment on him.

He smiles to himself, watching Mycroft stride past him and towards the back rooms without a glance in his direction. For the best; who knows what he would think of Mike staring over at him. Mycroft's confident pace is even and efficient. What's the thinking right now? Mycroft doesn't know Mike's introduced John Watson to Sherlock's life. He knows that Mike and Sherlock are aquainted, of course, but probably not to the extent that they are. Mike's taken quite an interest in Sherlock lately.

Mycroft probably knows the rest of Mike's life just from the few conversations they've had. Shrewd blue eyes combing him top to bottom each time. It's thrilling in it's own way. Where Sherlock can't help but spout every deduction he makes, Mycroft smooths a strong veneer of civility over his. No one needs to see what a genius he is. He doesn't crave the attention. When they first met, Mycroft had been so quick with his once-over, Mike hadn't realised he was deducing at all. He'd been fooled completely by Mycroft Holmes. Just another friendly chap. Well, until he'd thought about the exchange after the fact. In the comfort of his bed that night, he'd thought back and suddenly noticed the little things. Like how Mycroft knew he was Chief of Medicine despite Mike introducing himself as a doctor and nothing more. And how he'd asked how his holiday to Greece had been, Mike hadn't said anything about that. The interesting thing about geniuses was when they could blend in. Whatever Mycroft does, he must be deadly.

Hmm. He leans over and presses the buzzer on the wall.

 

* * *

 

"Doctor Michael Stamford," says Mycroft, his eyes sliding over Mike.  
Mike closes the heavy wooden door behind him and glances around. Mycroft's office is dimly lit with a high ceiling, fancy oak wainscotting, and bookshelves. Not a lot here for Mike to deduce. Sometimes he gives it a go, but he's not much good. The books are mostly old, and probably came with the office. "Hello," says Mike, smiling. He offers his hand.  
Mycroft is lounging in his armchair like a cat. Someone's taken his coat for him.  
"Pleasure," Mycroft stands, the perfect gentleman, to shake his hand. "Don't tell me my errant little brother has been terrorising your hospital again."  
"Good memory!" says Mike, though, he wasn't expecting anything less.  
Mycroft's lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. "Have a seat. Would you like a drink, Doctor Stamford?"  
"Thanks. Call me Mike." Mike isn't one for scotch, but whatever Mycroft has back here will probably be life-changing; who's he to refuse?  
"Michael, then," amends Mycroft, pouring a glass for him.  
"I am here about Sherlock," says Mike, "though not because he's terrorising my hospital. Which he is, by the way."  
Mycroft arches a brow. "I've said before, if he causes any inconvenience, you should have him removed."  
"Oh it's no trouble," he chuckles, reaching for the drink.  
Mycroft watches him as he takes a sip. It's like a delicious house fire. Mike's eyelids flutter as he swallows. It's perfect.

"If it's not the hospital, then-" Mycroft lifts his chin in question.  
"Well, I introduced him to someone today."  
"I doubt my brother will be interested in some hospital secretary-"  
"No," Mike interrupts, then checks himself. Whoops. "Sorry. No, not like that. An old friend of mine; Doctor John Watson, invalided back from Afghanistan last month. He's looking for a flatmate and I thought they might get on."  
Mycroft raises his eyebrows at that. "Indeed. A partner in crime-solving."  
"I thought you might like to know. After the-" Mike stops himself. "Well."  
Mycroft shifts in his seat, fingertips on the rim of his own scotch glass.  
"I know you worry about him so I thought I'd let you know. But it should be fine. John's a good bloke. We went to St Bart's together back in the day. Before he joined the army, that is."  
"I see. And Sherlock seemed," he pauses, "interested?"  
"Oh yes," Stamford says, proudly. "They're going to look at a flat on Baker Street together."  
"John Watson, you say. I'll be interested to meet him."  
"You should like John," everyone likes John.  
"We'll see," says Mycroft, taking a sip of his own scotch, his eyes never leaving Mike's.  
Mike feels like he should look down, but he's having too much fun. What does it mean when a man wears a ring on his right finger instead of his left? Sherlock would know. Mycroft isn't married. Obvious. And Mycroft's tie is dark red today, does that mean something?  
"What are you doing?" asks Mycroft, because he's noticed.  
"Sorry, just-" Mike offers a polite frown as an apology.  
"My brother is a bad influence on you," remarks Mycroft, his voice gives nothing away.  
"No harm in having a go, is there?"  
Mycroft smiles, letting it slide. "And this recent introduction aside, everything with Sherlock is as it should be?"  
"So far as I can tell. He was down in the morgue this morning, keeping busy."  
"Good."

Their meeting doesn't last much longer. It was a flimsy excuse to meet anyway, Mike knows that. Mycroft is a busy, important man. Mike is too, he supposes. But if he has to choose between paperwork and the elder Mr Holmes, he knows where he's going to be. They chat about St Bart's and Mike finishes off his scotch. All in all, it's pleasant. Mike tries, a couple of times, to ask Mycroft questions about his own life, but Mycroft skillfully avoids them. On his way out, Mycroft stops him, a hand on his shoulder.  
"Thank you for looking out for my brother. Do let me know if anything else of note occurs." He hands Mike his business card.  
"No problem. And let me know how Sherlock gets along with John. I think they'll be a well-suited pair."  
"We shall see."

Mycroft shows Mike out with a nod and a smile. Once the door is closed behind him, Mike looks down at the business card. Surely now, at least one mystery will be solved and Mike will, at least, know where he works. What he does. His hopes fall when he reads the card. 'Mycroft Holmes' a phone number and an email address. No other information. And of course Mycroft owns 'holmes.co.uk'. Who is he?

 

* * *

 

It's late, the following evening when the pretty brunette knocks at his office door, pushing it open. Mike frowns, trying to place her. She's not one of the new interns, is she? No.  
"Doctor Stamford?" she asks, her voice crisp like a bell.  
"Yes, good evening."  
"Sorry to disturb you, I have a parcel for you."  
She's not the usual courier, but Mike gets up from his desk and takes the parcel anyway. "Thanks-?" He waits for her to introduce herself. He knows every name on staff.  
"Mycroft Holmes says thankyou," she says by way of explanation.  
Mike looks down at the parcel, a good size and wrapped in brown paper. There's no text on the outside of it. It looks like it's come right out of the 1960's.

When he looks back up, the young woman is gone. Mike furrows his brow, looking out his office door to the coridoor beyond. He hadn't even heard her heels clicking along the floor.  
"Curiouser and curiouser," he mutters, shutting the office door and taking the parcel back to his desk. He makes quick work of it and smiles once the paper is ripped away. A new centrifuge. Did Sherlock tell him? Unlikely. This is Mycroft showing off his own deduction skills, isn't it.  
Affixed to the underside is a handwritten note.

 _M,_  
_Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever._  
_-M_

Mike huffs a laugh. Mycroft's right, John could well make Sherlock worse than ever, but there's a sensible streak in the good doctor too. Mike isn't worried. And neither is Mycroft by the looks of things. Is the centrifuge a gift for putting up with Sherlock, keeping Mycroft in the loop, or bringing John into the mix? Perhaps it's all three. Mike sighs and puts it to the side of his desk. He'll drop it in to the lab on his way out. For now, he has work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

"I met Sherlock's brother, did you know about that?"  
"No," says Mike, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt. The pub is slowly picking up around them, a bachelorette party has just arrived; the bride-to-be looks happy. "Where would I have heard that?" He's certain John doesn't know that he's met Mycroft. Unless Sherlock's been blabbing.  
"Oh, I blogged about it. I have a blog now too."  
"That's brilliant, mate!" Mike reaches across the battered old table to give John a hearty pat on the shoulder. He's only done a bit of mental health study, proof-read a few of his daughters essays, but a blog is good. It means improvement, reflection. "What are you writing- wait, no. Tell me about Mycroft first."  
"You know his name." John's voice is even, dangerous. It's not a question.  
"Oh, well yeah. I've met him before, once or twice."  
"Where?"  
"Chasing after Sherlock, usually," he shrugs, the lie is seamless. "Go on, though. He's a nice chap, isn't he?"  
"Nice?" John shakes his head, "Only you, mate."  
"What do you mean?"  
"He's terrifying, Mike. He kidnapped me!"  
"Kidnapped you?" Mike chuckles.  
"Yeah. Kidnapped me. Seriously. I was walking back from a crime scene and each time I passed a public telephone, it would ring."  
Mike's eyes widen as John tells the story. Controlling security cameras, limosuines with attractive assistants, abandoned warehouses; Mycroft is a man of means. Half his beer is gone, he needs to slow down, but the story is so mad he feels like he's at the pictures. If only they made popcorn here too.  
"Well," says Mike, "I can see how that might start you off on the wrong foot. What did he kidnap you for?"  
"He wanted to bribe me into spying on Sherlock for money." John sniffs angrily, staring down at his own drink. "Like that's ever going to happen."  
"You wouldn't?" Mike's done it; more than once. Though, not for money. But he's definitely ratted on Sherlock. For his own good, of course.  
"You've met him. Would you tell him anything personal?"  
"Well-" Mike can't quite see Mycroft the way John does. Not after that last time Sherlock had been admitted to Emergency when some mobsters had roughed him up; he'd never seen an older brother so worked up over a concussion. "Like I said. Mycroft seems nice enough to me."  
"I didn't even realise he was Sherlock's brother until Sherlock told me. He actually introduced himself as Sherlock's arch-enemy. Who does that?"  
"Arch enemy?"  
"Yeah," John takes a sip of his own beer. He's not that far behind Mike, really. Just like their uni days.  
"My sister isn't my arch enemy, but she comes close, as far as arch enemies go," says Mike, carefully. He's got a theory. "Do you think it was a test? To see if you could be sold out? Sounds like he didn't want you to know he was Sherlock's brother. Perhaps he just wanted to see if your loyalties could be bought."  
"Huh." John studies him, his expression complex. "I hadn't thought of that."  
"Course not. You were kidnapped, weren't you." Mike smiles. "I bet Mycroft had a good laugh about it once you passed his test with flying colours." Perhaps that's what the centrifuge was for. Though, Mycroft didn't have to deliver it in the dead of night.  
John sniffs again, furrowing his brow. "Do you know what Mycroft does? For work?"  
"No idea. I've always wondered, though."  
"Hmm-" John takes a sip of his beer, pensive. "Sherlock said he IS the British Government. Spends his time starting wars and working freelance for the CIA."  
A small shiver runs it's way though Mike. He hasn't seen anything from Mycroft that would rule it out. "That's not likely."  
"Well, nothing about Mycroft- or Sherlock, is ever likely."  
"How is living with Sherlock, anyway?" asks Mike, keeping his voice casual. They ought to get off the topic of Mycroft.  
"Yeah," John shrugs. "Good. I mean, he's mad. He drives me up the wall sometimes, but it's good. Really good."  
"You're getting along, then?"  
"Oh, God yes. Thank you so much for introducing me."  
Mike smiles. "Happy to help."

 

* * *

 

Mike stumbles outside shortly after midnight. The street is eerie-quiet compared to the pub. The music is muffled out here. He pauses, breathing in the icy air and watching the fog of his breath drift away when he exhales. It's peaceful. John got a text from Sherlock about fifteen minutes ago and had to dash off so Mike had helped himself to what was left of their beers alone. John's was mostly full so he's feeling a bit wobbly now. Nothing too bad, he'll be fine to walk home. It's not far, anyway; his house is only a few familiar streets away. But if he had to read one of those surgery reports now, he'd probably be in trouble. There's a noise off across the road. A cat? He has a good slow look around just to be safe, but it's all quiet. That's when he notices the security camera staring down at him from the lamp post. He tilts his head, considering it. John had said- well.

He probably isn't watching.  
The security camera stares, glass eye unmoving.  
For all Mike knows, it's not even connected to anything. Just something the pub uses to discourage fisticuffs.  
But it's pointed right at him, searing it's way into his soul.  
Mike quirks a grin, lifting an eyebrow.  
The song changes inside the pub to one of Mike's old favorites; The Safety Dance. He hesitates. There's no way Mycroft is watching. He has better things to do, surely. He's probably on a conference call to Beijing or brokering peace with the Martians or something. Eyes still on the camera, he bobs on the spot. The song really is his favourite. When the chorus starts, he can't resist any longer. He breaks into his own skipping, jumping dance, his arms flailing in the air. He can't remember a single occasion where he hasn't danced to this song. From back when he was young and fit and it was all over the radio, to that wedding reception where he'd requested it from the DJ and she'd had to google it. Singing along, he skips down the street until he's out of breath and laughing, an arm on the brick wall on the street corner to hold him up.

He glances back over his shoulder as he gets his breath back. The security camera has swivelled on it's post to look at him. It's blank expression seems unimpressed. Mike's having too much fun to care. Laughing, he gives it a wave and heads off down the laneway.

 

* * *

 

Mike Stamford looks incredible. He'd even spent five minutes admiring himself in the mirror before he left home. His suit is tailored perfectly, his Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire medal (for his contributions to healthcare) is pinned smartly to his jacket. He's even got coat tails. Back when he was a boy, he often liked to picture what his adult-self would be like. He imagined a well-muscled man in scrubs with his hands in someone's chest; the only thing standing between the patient and death. He'd imagined a practical, simple career. He'd never imagined this. But these days, his work is so much more than the one-person-at-a-time hero vision of his boyhood. There is so much more to medicine than just doctoring.

He gets out of his car and hands the keys over to the valet, swishing his coat tails as he turns to climb the stairs. He's never worn The Medal at any of these fundraising functions before; always felt a bit silly. But tonight is different. Last time the Guild held a fundraiser, Mycroft Holmes had been here. He can sense that there's a Holmes in the building the moment he reaches the top of the steps. Mycroft is in attendance again. Somewhere. He's probably completely at ease in the sumptuous ballroom too. The light is golden, cast down from a stunning ring of chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The richly-patterned carpet underfoot is so plush, Mike's brogue-clad feet feel as though they've sunken into it. He takes a moment to admire the crowd of mostly familiar faces. Everyone looks elegant, dressed to the nines. He spots his daughter, Lucia, better known as Doctor Stamford the Younger, across the room. Before he can make his way over to give her a hug, the Secretary of the Guild of St Bart's Hospital intercepts him. With a wide smile, she shakes his hand and strikes up a conversation, introducing him to some new sponsors. He nods and smiles, making small-talk. It's fine. This is why he's here; he's good at sweet-talking donors. The Guild and their volunteers make St Bart's one of the best hospitals in the country.

He nicks a champagne off one of the wait-staff and works his way slowly around the room, greeting friends and colleagues, offering slaps on the back and polite handshakes.  
"Dad!"  
"Lucia, my love!" He manages to excuse himself from the conversation he's having with a cantankerous old surgeon just in time for her. She runs right into his arms, hitting him with a thud.  
"I missed you!" she says, laughing as he spins her around in a circle, her emerald green gown flares out in a circle around them. He missed her too, even though it's only been a couple of days. "Careful!" she says, "My hair!"  
He lets her go, chuckling as she pats at her brown locks.  
"Your hair looks fine, Doctor Stamford."  
"And you!" she gasps, looking his outfit over. "You look great! You're wearing The Medal, too!"  
Mike preens, spinning in a stately circle for her to see his outfit. Lucia was there when he'd received The Medal, of course. Halfway through uni, she'd skipped a study group to come and see the ceremony at Buckingham Palace.  
"Well," Mike says, trying to stay coy. "About time I wore it, isn't it?" She's always trying to get him to wear it to functions.  
"Any reason?"  
"Nah. Oh, this is Doctor Wei, let me introduce you."

They make the rounds together, arm in arm. He and Luci are chatting to a Guild volunteer when Mike claps eyes on Mycroft. For a man who is always well-dressed, Mike was expecting a lot. But- he's stunning, even from halfway across the room. His vest and bowtie are just shy of white; the slightest grey-blue imaginable. It brings out his eyes. His morning suit is tailored within an inch of it's life, a tiny blue flower pinned to the lapel of his black jacket. His trousers are finely striped, black with dark grey. The effect is- Mike's lost for words. Mycroft has noticed him, too, his eyes skimming Mike and Luci over.  
"Who's-" Luci's hand is soft on his arm.  
The eye contact doesn't last long, a gaggle of middle-aged women break Mike's line of sight.  
"Sorry," Mike stutters, turning to find the volunteer has gone. "What?"  
"Who was that?" asks Luci, incredulous.  
"Oh, just a friend of mine. Mycroft Holmes." Is he a friend? Probably not.  
"Holmes as in Sherlock Holmes?" Luci's eyes brighten. "You have to introduce me!"  
Mike may have mentioned Sherlock once or twice during their Thursday night catchup dinners. "After the banquet," he promises.

 

* * *

 

Once they've eaten and the speeches have been had, Mike makes his excuses and heads out to the back garden to get some fresh air. The corporate sponsor man sitting beside him needs to come by the hospital some time soon to have that halitosis seen to.  
"I must admit, I wasn't expecting to see a stunning young lady on your arm."  
"I'm sure you've deduced that she's my daughter," chuckles Mike.  
Mycroft steps out from under the shadowy magnolia tree, cigarette dangling from his lips like a Bond villain. It's clear that Mycroft loves a dramatic entrance. "True," he says, offering a hand.  
Mike swallows, shaking the offered hand. Both his and Mycroft's ring and pinky fingers are curled flat against their own palms when they connect; the Diogenes Club secret handshake. It lights up Mike's nerves, touching Mycroft, even if it's just this.  
"Speaking of, Lucia wants to meet you. I may have mentioned Sherlock once or twice to her. She's looking into a specialisation in Psychiatry so she's fascinated by his-" Mike hesitates, "cognitive abilities."  
Mycroft takes the cigarette out of his mouth and sighs, smoke shooting from his lips, up above their heads. It's pornographic, the way the skin at his throat stretches.  
"And mine, by extension," he says, staring up at the dark sky.  
"Well, I haven't told her anything about you." Mike smiles, trying not to stare at the cigarette. He's not had one in years but he's still tempted. Especially at events like this. "Your call, really, I know how good you are at hiding how clever you are."  
Something shines in Mycroft's eyes- amusement?  
Mike takes a seat on the low stone bench beside him, patting the other end; an invitation for Mycroft to take a seat. Mycroft makes like he hasn't seen the gesture and stays standing.  
"Speaking of my brother's cognitive abilities, is his reign of terror on your hospital ongoing?"  
"Doctor Hooper- she's here too, tonight- mentioned he'd popped in to the morgue to nick some parts for an experiment yesterday."  
"I really don't know why you put up with him," murmurs Mycroft.  
"I just enjoy having something to chat with you about."  
Mycroft quirks his brow at that.  
"I think you're fascinating," Mike says, emboldened by the drinks he's had with dinner.  
"I can assure you, Michael, there's nothing fascinating about me." Mycroft sits down on the bench, stubbing out the remains of the cigarette.  
"Oh yeah?" Mike hooks one leg over the other, turning towards Mycroft. "I heard from Doctor Watson that you are the entirety of the British Government."  
"For goodness sake," scoffs Mycroft. "I occupy a minor position-"  
"Sure you do. A man of your-" Mike pauses, blinking. Now that Mycroft's sitting beside him, he can almost smell his cologne. Magnolia? "Intellect. I bet you're running things."  
"Doctor Watson is prone to flights of fancy, I believe. I'm no more interesting than you. I don't even have an MBE." Mycroft gestures to The Medal.  
Mike glances down at it. "Ah, you noticed. Tell me, what else have you deduced about me tonight?"  
"That's Sherlock's party trick."  
"Please? Indulge me."  
Mycroft purses his lips, eyes flying over Mike again. "You don't wear it often, your MBE, though, you've had it close to ten years now. Keen to make an impression on someone."  
Mike nods, but Mycroft doesn't elaborate.  
"Now that you're Chief of Medicine, your a man of means. Your suit is a bespoke piece from Saville Row. Though, old habits die hard. Glasses Direct spectacles."  
"And Lucia?"  
"The family resemblance is there in the bone structure of your face and also the tendency towards," Mycroft pauses, looking down and huffing a laugh, "this is why this is Sherlock's party trick."  
"Our tendency towards- big bones?" Mike supplies.  
"Well,"  
"Call a spade a spade, Mycroft. I've accepted it."  
Mycroft's expression is that of utter incomprehension. His brow furrows as he studies Mike's eyes.  
Mike smiles, shrugging.  
"Also the familiarity between the two of you," he says. "From what I know of you, it's unlikely you'd be interested in a woman twenty-something years your junior."  
"I like people on my level. Or above."  
"Hmm. Also, her presence here at this event. Like father like daughter."  
"So it' wasn't the kind of cufflinks I wore or the shine in my shoe?"  
"My deductions are decidedly more practical than that. No guesswork. There can never be room for error. Though, I do respect a man who shines his own shoes."  
"These are my dancing shoes," Mike admires them. Now that the dinner is over, the evening will inevitably lead him to the drunken dancefloor. "Will you be dancing tonight?"  
"I may, though I doubt I'm as good as you." Mycroft smiles.  
Mike's heart skips a beat. Had Mycroft seen that security camera footage after all? Surely not.

After that, Mycroft makes his excuses and rejoins the party, Mike not far behind. He's busily sweet-talking a sponsor when he glances out across the dance floor and spots them. Mycroft and Lucia, spinning and smiling together. It sends a strange feeling through him. Not jealousy. Doubt? Dressed like that, Mycroft could have any woman, or man, he wanted. He's intelligent, wealthy, carismatic and dresses like a country squire. Lucia is completely charmed with him, her dimpled smile, obvious. Who does Mike think he is, pursuing someone like Mycroft? Someone so mysterious and perfect and well put together. Now now, none of that. He must get morose. Mycroft isn't dancing with Luci by coincidence. Mike lifts his chin. Got to be in it to win it, Stamford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is a nonprofit arm of St Bart's called 'The Guild of the Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew' they're over at bartsguild.org. I have no idea if they have white-tie fundraisers in real life, though ;)


End file.
